


kings of the killing, out for blood

by hollowedrxbcage



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, yes apollo is writing an essay on homoerotic themes in the great gatsby to piss off his teacher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 00:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13423005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollowedrxbcage/pseuds/hollowedrxbcage
Summary: But, an ‘altercation’ sounds too cut and dry, too neat. It doesn’t describe the way the violence seems to breathe, Apollo thinks—that boy is made of teeth.





	kings of the killing, out for blood

**Author's Note:**

> a short piece i started a while ago that i may never finish. title taken from monsters - ruelle.

The boy fighting in the hallways—no, fighting isn’t quite the right word here, over too quickly: the punch delivered to some vaguely familiar other boy that Apollo had never cared to remember the name of that crumples over with a shout, and with the teachers descending like winged angels. But, an ‘altercation’ sounds too cut and dry, too neat. It doesn’t describe the way the violence seems to breathe, Apollo thinks—that boy is made of teeth. 

Or at least that’s Apollo’s impression with a glance at the scene, and an impression is a powerful thing. It’s what falls across you and paints you with its colors, leaves you marked with them.

Does any of what he’s thinking make sense? Perhaps not, but somehow the fight is sticking between his ribs and refusing to get out, confusingly; the boy is not relevant to anything. Apollo doesn’t quite care about the boy, but he cares about the way the fight seemed—seems? Somehow it feels like the moment is circular, never-ending, never-beginning; like the moment should forever be referred to in present tense—like a sort of brutal art captured in motion.

It doesn’t matter. 

Apollo directs his gaze back to Athena and plasters the cockiness of his fallen grin back on, “What were we saying, again?” Something about the homework their English teacher had assigned them, he remembers, an essay on The Great Gatsby (his planned topic is currently the homoerotic themes displayed by the narrator to spite his teacher, but that’s not the point).

She raises an eyebrow, “Dionysus.”

He blinks, “We were talking about . . . Dionysus?” It sounds like a name. Somewhat. He thinks that’s what it is, but, in all fairness, it could be the name of one of the obscure literary concepts that Athena has the tendency of referring to in everyday conversations. Apollo remembers with the startling clarity of a thought memorized that the only reason he talks to her is because their teacher has the irritating habit of assigning them together as partners.

“No,” Athena sighs like he’s being even more of an idiot than she typically thinks he is, “The boy that just punched Phobos. He transferred here two days ago and sits next to me in history. You seemed interested.”

He catalogues the names in the back of his mind; he shelves  _ Phobos  _ in a dark cabinet and turns  _ Dionysus _ over and over in his head.

Apollo lets his lips show a hint of his teeth, wolfishly, “I  _ am _ interested.” Or perhaps he’s not, but the way Dionysus’ body had moved with the punch, abrupt and fluid in the same instant, and the way it had caught Apollo’s breath in his throat—he’s interested in that.

She narrows her eyes, “Don’t break him, we’re probably going to be paired up together for the poster project next week and I prefer my partners whole.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he lies.


End file.
